


The Only Hope For Me Is You (Frerard Oneshots)

by thephoenixwitch



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Black Parade Era, Bullets Era (My Chemical Romance), Danger Days Era, Frerard, M/M, The Fabulous Killjoys, Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge Era, Vampire Gerard Way, Zones Slang (Fabulous Killjoys)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:53:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23939437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thephoenixwitch/pseuds/thephoenixwitch
Summary: gotta love those funky mcr boys
Relationships: Frank Iero/Gerard Way
Kudos: 13





	1. Windows

**Author's Note:**

> Whew, okay, here's a little vent oneshot I did forever ago

There were entirely too many fucking windows in this apartment , Gerard had decided.

It wasn't a conscious conclusion, just a half-ironic statement he muttered under his breath as he stared down a bowl of cheap cereal and tried to fend off the insurmountable exhaustion that was pounding in his head. Still, he honestly did feel like he could do well with shrinking away from all this light and annoyingly bustling normality that came from the glass panes; something in him had snapped during the course of the last few months, and it had snapped hard.

He didn't know how to explain it, and he didn't really care.

It was more than the windows that were nabbing at the back of his mind; it was the color of the lights, too harsh and making him feel like an insect trapped in amber-- it was the dust on the television screen, it was everything around him culminating in a chorus of nervousness, of temptation, of some apprehension that hung in the air.

Gerard tried to ignore it as best as possible.

It was Sunday when he finally gave up and shut the curtains, cursing under his breath for giving into this weird urge without reason. He just couldn't take it; between this and the feeling of utter stupidity for doing it, his head felt like it was splitting rapidly, like atoms.

For a brief second, he considered calling up his boyfriend-- but cast the thought away with scathing anger. You really think this is worth bothering him for? Are you really that goddamn selfish?

So he curled up in bed, and finally, mercifully, fell asleep.

***

Why can't you keep yourself together? Why are you always in pieces, all the time?

I-I'm fucking trying, I'm sorry--

No. Listen to me. I can't keep standing here under the weight of you falling, Gerard.

I'm trying not to--

It's going to tear me apart, too, if I don't get away.

Please, what the hell-- I'll try harder, I'll keep trying, please--

I can't handle you. You're breaking me.

Gerard shot up, breathing in a rushed panic; then he gathered his surroundings and sunk down into the covers again.

It was always jolting, the way it would hit him: he tried to ground himself as the sobs starting to rack through him, but it only made him feel sicker.

Jesus Christ, he muttered, the words fading out into more of a whimper as he started losing control.

For the past year, this had been his life-- falling apart, trying to piece himself back together, then waiting for the thoughts to pull him under again.

Since the tour, Frank was gone more often than not.

This meant, of course, that his head took advantage of this at every opportunity.

You're sick, you're sick, you're sick, the refrain chanted, and morphed into you're selfish, you're weak, you're worthless each time, without fail. It was dawning on him: if he couldn't keep himself together, how the hell was he supposed to be there for Frank? Why was Frank even still with him, how much longer did he have before he told Gerard the words he knew he was thinking, the words that this isn't working, you're too much, this just isn't healthy for me...

Gerard buried his face in his pillow. This was just the reality of it. He ruined everything he touched, he thought.

He didn't get up, didn't eat breakfast; he tried flicking through his phone halfheartedly. He couldn't pull himself away from the vividness of the dream.

You're breaking me.

***

Frank returned to find the curtains drawn and his boyfriend staring up at the ceiling of their bedroom.

Immediately, he knew what was happening.

"Hey," Frank said softly, laying down next to him.

Gerard closed his eyes. "Shit. I'm sorry." He breathed in, shakily. He'd obviously been crying, the fabric of his T-shirt and the pillowcase still wet with tear stains, his eyes glossed with red.

"...for what? I promise, you didn't do anything. I swear to god, baby." Frank wrapped his arms around Gerard's hips, and the latter swallowed and pushed him away gently.

"I'm serious, I haven't...I don't even know. Every time you come home to this and I just keep wishing, so fucking bad, that I could be better for you...I feel like..."

Frank brushed a strand of Gerard's jet black hair behind his ear. "A burden?"

Gerard sucked in a sharp breath. The air was heavy on his chest.

In an instant, Frank balanced himself on his knees, Gerard's waist between his legs. He looked down at him.

"You're not a burden--"

He kissed Gerard's forehead, and the older man opened his eyes a little.

"You're not doing anything wrong--"

He brought his lips to his, and Gerard sighed and began to give in.

"You're not a coward, you're not being stupid--"

He moved down to Gerard's neck, eliciting a quiet moan in response, then an eye roll as Gerard opened his eyes again with a knowing look.

"--and you're not hurting me, not at all. You never do." Frank brushed his fingers against the strip of skin beneath the hem of Gerard's shirt, placing a brief kiss there before looking back at his bloodshot hazel eyes.

Gerard gave a small laugh, smiling weakly, and nodded.

"I know you don't believe me. But I'm going to stick around to try and make you see that for as long as possible," Frank whispered, and pulled up the hem gently, rubbing slow circles into his hips and kissing up from his stomach to his lips. Gerard tangled his fingers firmly in his partner's hair, falling apart again, only this time in the best way possible.

Eventually, however, Frank pulled away, grinning.

"Seriously, though, can we open open the curtains again? Like, I know you're a total vampire and everything..."

"Oh, god," Gerard groaned. "Shit. I...yeah. Sorry about that."

Frank laughed, kissing him again; his hand interlocked with his, holding on with no intentions of letting go.


	2. I'll Keep You Safe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have some Killjoys, y'all

The shot would've hit dead on if Party hadn't slammed his body into Fun's, effectively shoving him out of the way of the laser blast.

The two men collapsed, hands gripped tightly to their guns as they sheltered themselves behind the outcropping rocks. The blasts continued relentlessly, the air burning with platinum streaks of deadly light right above them.

"Fuck," Party muttered, scanning their immediate surroundings for a feasible escape route. They could hear their attackers closing in on them, leaving only seconds to figure out their next move.

Taking a deep breath, Fun Ghoul whipped his laser gun in the direction of the dracs, his finger pulling the trigger in a staggered manner before he ducked down again, grabbed Party Poison's hand, and headed for the next cluster of rocky outcrops.

"Holy shit--" Party gasped, but Fun pushed him behind the structure before following in suit.

"You could've-- that could've been it for you," Party hissed as they sprinted across the uneven surface of the desert.

"It'll be it for both of us if you don't shut up and focus," Ghoul snapped back, willing himself to pick up his pace as the Trans Am came into view. Party spun around on his heel, giving a steady-handed shot in the direction of the dracs still on their tail, and jumped over the driver's side door before slamming the key in the ignition. Fun stumbled in behind him, and with that they managed to speed off relatively unscathed.

It was business as usual, in other words.

Frank held onto the transistor radio, fumbling with the knob and holding it between he and Party to listen.

 _"Every one of these days, our dearest friends are finding themselves ghosted;"_ Dr. Death Defying proclaimed across the airwaves, his energy still there but the weariness that rested inside of everyone nowadays evident in his voice.

_"These are trying times, Killjoys, rebels, for the brave who fight in the badlands of the zones and for all of us, we gotta keep a firecracker philosophy, passion as our parachute, make sure the spirit goes sky-high to all the goddesses in the stars!"_

Dr. Death continued on with his speeches and influx of news; despite everything, one could always count on the Doctor to deliver.

"Spirits high, yes, that's some likely shit right there," Party Poison huffed.

Ghoul wanted to tell him to stop with the sudden nilihism that had overcome in of late, but he couldn't find the words. Nor could he blame him, really; it'd been so long ago yet just like yesterday that they lost their comrades and watched more and more of their friends follow in suit.

The pain was almost a lifestyle, the dread of hearing the death toll numbers rise, the odds of the revolution they were fighting seeming less and less on their side. Darkness was an understatement; this was chaos that felt almost insurmountable.

But despite Party's words, both he and Fun were part of the dozens upon dozens still fighting back, no matter what the odds told them.

***

Ghoul and Poison set up camp under the protection of the sprawling desert rocks, keeping their fire as subtle as possible as they fought to stay warm against the shrowd of night.

Party was laid back on the rough ground, a thin blanket thrown underneath him as he winced a little with each shift and movement.

"Party?" Fun questioned, tentatively.

"Gee."

Poison, who was digging his nails into his fabric-clad thighs, looked at him, and swallowed through the obvious soreness.

"Hold on a sec," Ghoul told him, sifting around for medical necessities in their supplies.

Party shook his head, dismissing his concern. "Really. I'm just aching a little, y'know? Don't bother."

Still, Fun crouched over him with bandages and painkiller in hand, gently pushing back the hem of Party's shirt to assess his injuries.

Purple cluster of bruises stretched across Poison's torso, running from his waistband to scattered lightly across his ribs. He grimaced when Ghoul ran his fingers across them, looking solemn.

"I'm sorry," Fun said quietly, and Party's eye's snapped wide. "No, I swear to god, you better not blame yourself for the hundreth time. Ghoul, look at me. _I'm fine_. I'm okay, seriously."

Fun Ghoul brushed Party's electric cherry hair from his face, planting a small kiss on his forehead.

"I just need to help you right now. Just take a couple," he coaxed, handing Poison the bottle of painkiller, who accepting it reluctantly.

"We're gonna run out pretty damn soon at this rate," he muttered, but swallowed two pills in a swift motion, handing it back. He closed his eyes, and Fun laid down next to him on the thin cloth.

"I'm just trying to help you, Poison."

"Then--just stay. Just be here, right here. That's literally--" Party brought his fingers up to Ghoul's soft locks, studying him as he always did in moments like these, like he was completely new and completely overwhelming-- "that's all I need."

He pressed his face into Ghoul's collarbone, savoring the taste and the smell of his sweat and his body itself.

Ghoul nodded, keep an arm around him as lightly as possible. Party snuggled closer. Ghoul gazed down at him. Poison swallowed, his eyelashes brushing against Ghoul's skin.

Poison grabbed his hand suddenly, holding it like his life depended on it.

Fun bit his lip, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes. He curled up, holding Party in his arms and throwing another thin blanket over them against the cold of the looming darkness. 

They were gonna be alright, Ghoul decided. They'd be alright.


	3. Summertime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a request! Hopefully it's sufficiently cute.

Something about it, the house with its soft colored walls and all of its potential-- the way it would be filled with photographs and paintings and all the memories they created together, was simply overwhelming.

Boxes were stacked along the rooms, the frenzy of the past few days and the days to come stilled for a short time as the evening settled into night.

When Gerard and Frank had managed to get everything in order, they finally drove up from Mikey and Pete's place, only a few boxes of belongings and their dog, Sweet Pea, cradled in Frank's arms the whole ride. The stars seemed a little more important now that they had time, even if it was only for a short while before the insanity of the moving in process returned. Frank gazed up at them through the window, his hand resting on his husband's thigh, who smiled as they turned onto the street.

The vehicle remained in the driveway for several minutes as the young couple looked at their new home in awe, getting emotional as they visualized everything they had been through to get here, and what their future might hold-- maybe a family, maybe more dogs, definitely a lot more music. It was all just bits and pieces, these things and ideas, that made up their love for each other, and just the simple thoughts meant the world to them.

Despite everything, they'd made it.

 _"This is real,"_ Gerard whispered, burying his face in Frank's neck. Frank nodded, tears forming and slipping down his cheeks before he kissed him, gently. "We did this, Gee. This is us."

***

The moment they entered the house Sweet Pea bounded down the wood floor, yipping and ecstatic to be able to run around in peace again. Gerard laughed as he closed the door behind him, his hand still interlocked with Frank's. He looked up at the room surrounding them, feeling a swell of happiness. He was about to lead Frank forward to explore the place for the first time in peace as its owners, but someone had other plans.

Frank grinned, tugging his hand away and disappearing around the corner of the hallway. He said nothing, only giving Gerard a knowing glance.

"Baby...?" he asked with a chuckle, confused. Frank, however, remained silent in whatever it was he was getting them up to. Gerard sighed and followed his path, only to discover the back door wide open and his husband leaning against the threshold with a smirk.

In only his boxers.

"Oh my god," Gerard muttered, smiling and shaking his head. "Of course."

"Of-fucking-course. Now come on, pansy." Frank grabbed his hand, teasing him.

The situation in question was the in-ground pool that resided in their new backyard: the water stretched out for several yards each direction, providing Frank the perfect opportunity to start their first night here right.

"C'mon, we've gotta kick this shit off," Frank said, and Gerard followed in suit, tossing his clothes in a pile with Frank's. Frank laced his fingers with his, counting to three--

_"Hell yeah!"_

_"Frank--"_

The water went over their heads, the cold stinging ever so slightly as the night sky glimmered on above them through the surface. They came up, Gerard coughing and sucking in a breath sharply. Frank laughed and wrapped his arms around his waist.

"Really?" Gerard managed, after several seconds of recovery. "Was that really necessary?"

Frank kissed his cheek, still giggling like a maniac.

"We had to start it off with a bang, y'know. So yes. Definitely."

The two remained still for a while, the cool breeze hitting the back of their necks. Frank kept his hand on Gerard's chest, the water shining on his tattooed fingers as he felt the older man's heartbeat.

"I love you so fucking much," Frank told him, and brought his lips to his. Gerard took Frank's fingers from his chest and trailed the down his stomach softly, whispering an _"I love you"_ back to him with an overwhelmed adoration in his eyes.

The water reflected off the moonlight, the hum of the city below them carried on, and the two husbands wrapped up in each other's arms.

Eventually, however, Frank's adrenaline got the best of him, and he broke away for a moment, pausing as he ran his hands along the inky blue surface.

Gerard raised an eyebrow, and was promptly splashed in the face.

"You asshole," he joked, Frank teasing him with another, less aggressive splash this time. Gerard shivered, beginning to question their decision to jump into a swimming pool in the middle of the night. Frank, on the other hand, had no complaints: he backstroked across the pool, eyes closed as his husband watched him, loving how happy the man he loved looked in this moment.

Frank stopped upon reaching the other end of the pool, hand on the edge.

"Oh my god," he said, incredulous.

"What?"

"Holy shit....Gee, look," he said, practically dying of laughter. He sucked in a breath, and disappeared underneath the water. Gerard observed this, confused for a split second before the realization hit him.

"Oh, Frankie, baby...." he giggled, wading over to where he was. Frank reappeared, gasping in a bit of air and shaking his head in disbelief.

Gerard stood, the water lapping at his chin, perfectly still.

The catch:

"I can't reach the damn bottom, Gee," Frank said, before bursting into another fit of laughter.

He kept up a rhythm to tread the surface, and Gerard bit his lip.

"Oh my god. You're...you're adorable," he said, reaching out to pull a few wet strands of raven black hair from his face.

"Oh, shut up," Frank retorted, and then he kissed him. Gerard pushed back into the kiss, his arms instinctively wrapping back around him.

Needless to say, they didn't get out of the pool for a while.


	4. The Best Kind of Madness

The boardwalk fades out into the lake, the shoreline of sorts fading out into the trees, all tangled around each other like that's the only way they make it through the summers and the winters.

The water is somewhere between olive and turquoise, the cold sweeping away the heat of the sun beating down on everything mercilessly. The afternoons are always the worst, the gold leaking out over everything until it feels thick and heavy. 

When you step down the incline into the surface of the water, you have to be careful not to stumble over all the wayward branches and twigs, the weary plants dripping with freshwater and exhaustion against the crumbling dirt. 

In the first five seconds, the first boy yells, laughing and cringing at the same time as he withdraws from the shore, brushing splinters away from his skin. Already, the first rule's been broken, and the others tease him while he rolls his eyes. Within a few minutes he's rejoining them, the chill seeping up to their necks in the tried lake that's raised all of them, it seems. 

Mikey complains about the splinter in his foot, the sun beats down like nothing ever happened. Quickly, he disappears under the surface and reemerges smoothing his hair back with the water. To the right, his friend raises an eyebrow, then grins and splashes him square-on.

"Oh, fuck off, Ray," he snaps back, to which the other just cackles, and they embark on their battle of aggressive splashing, the laughing echoing into the dying trees.

Several feet away, the oldest boy remains on the shore, his hands clutched over a book of comics while he watches them, shaking his head. 

At the edge of the water, the last teenager shoots him a smirk, but the older only smiles a little to himself, sending him a brief middle finger before going back behind the curtain of his black hair to scan over the colorful pages. 

"C'mon, Gee," the younger says, and he really means it.

The older gives Frank a warning glance, his eyes saying absolutely not, even though his instinct is somehow telling him to rush forward into the blue. With him.

"I'm right here, you know," Frank reminds him.

Gerard sighs. "Yeah, you know it's not that."

"Then what is it?"

The older stops, giving him a shaky stare. "I-I, yeah. Just don't worry about it."

Frank looks at him, sadly, almost ready to leave it be. But he's got a nagging instinct going against him, too.

He climbs out of the water, shivering a little despite the searing heat that's slowly slipping behind the horizon, but still very much there-- and sits down next to the older boy.

"...Frank, you don't need to worry about me, Jesus."

"Yeah, but I want to." He rests his head on Gerard's shoulder, the wet blonde and black locks dripping down the older's shirt. 

Gerard pulls his comics away to avoid getting them wet, rolling his eyes. The younger just snuggles closer, soaking his clothes gradually.

"Okay, okay, fine. For fuck's sake." 

Frank grins, pulling his hand into his and helping him up. Nervously, the older fidgets with the hem of his shirt, glancing back into the water where his brother and friend are laughing and slamming their palms against the water at each other. He breathes in slowly, telling himself not to think about it.

"You're beautiful."

The words are soft, and Frank nudges him forward with them, and even though Gerard's immediate reaction is to roll his eyes, he decides to trust in them. Why not? This summer was going to last forever, it felt. He could let it last forever right now, ignore all the doubts and whatever else tried to stop him. 

"Okay, you cheesy fuck. I'm going in," he tells Frank, pulling off the shirt and stepping into the murky liquid. He feels his cheeks burning red, but he ignores it as the two slip into the lake. The younger boy has he arms around his neck, beaming at him. 

He kisses the older, pulling back and still grinning perfectly.

"I told you."


	5. late night, regrettable movie choices, and the smiths

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> watch out for the sequel where they marathon neil breen movies

Gerard beamed like a fucking maniac, waving the DVD case in his hand for maximum effect.

"I would say something dramatic about hell, but I guess it's about that time of the year, isn't it?" I said, grabbing an old Halloween candy bowl for the popcorn we would undoubtedly me making on this momentous occasion.

"It's most definitely that time of the year. To forget that would be nothing short of blasphemy, do you understand?" Gerard quips, and leaps over the back of the couch to get to TV. 

"Obviously. It's art."

"Most definitely."

The disc slides into the player, and the television clicks on.

We settle into the couch for the next 99 minutes, nothing stopping us from our annual decision we made four years ago from being fulfilled yet again. Eventually Mikey comes downstairs, pulling a can of soda from the fridge and turning to face our territory in the living room.

He groans.

"I hate you both," he mutters, and disappears back upstairs.

"It's not my fault you don't appreciate the genius of Tommy Wiseau, plebeian!" Gerard yells, cackling.

"I did not hit her! I did not! Oh, hi Mark," the television rambles. 

"Hate ya'll," Mikey calls back.

****

"I'd fuck Morrisey," Gerard says, tossing another piece of half-stale popcorn into his mouth and leaning back into the headboard, satisfied.

"You know...this is crazy...but I think you may have mentioned that once or twice before."

"No..."

"Yeah, wild."

Meat is Murder spins softly on the record player, accented by the sound of Mikey laughing in the corner, hyped up on enough soda and candy to relax and stop being a 'pretentious twat', as Gerard so eloquently put it. We even got him to watch The Room, which is saying something coming from a guy who apparently refuses to watch anything that's not A. Old horror movies (no CGI, only practical effects permitted) and B. Over-bloated foreign language indie movies about existentialism and Why Shit Matters. I've been friends with Gerard long enough to write a book on all the things Mikey Way refuses to partake in for the sake of dignity.

"Morrisey's kind of an asshole, y'know," Mikey begins, but Gerard just shakes his head. "Asshole, maybe. Hot asshole, yes."

"Out of context, that sounds a bit too in detail for my tastes."

"Oh, believe me, I meant it in both contexts."

"Ug. Fuck you, Gee."

"Love you too, Mikes."

The younger of the two just rolls his eyes and takes another swig of his, like, third Mountain Dew.

"You know what we should totally do?" I start, sleepily but smirking nonetheless.

"Follow in the footsteps of Cobain and spray paint 'god is gay' on a church?"

"Well, yeah, that. But also go to the record shop downtown."

Mikey sets his can down, nodding vigorously. "Last time I was there they had a copy of Unknown Pleasures on vinyl--"

"You already own that album, you edgy fuck!" Gerard shoots, pointing vigorously at brother, whose glasses are currently skewed sideways on his face from all his fructose-fueled antics. 

"Not on vinyl! And besides, that's comedy coming from you."

"Touche." 

This is, in a nutshell, how me, my best friend, and my best friend's brother, all of whom are on some level of sugar rush and questionable teenage rebellion, hop in the car we refer to as the Gerard-technically-can't-drive-until-he-gets-his-full-license-but-whatever-mobile, and like that end up in a record shop at ten at night.

"How are you guys not closed?" Mikey asks the girl at the register, who just shrugs.

"How are you not on crack right now?" she offers in return, nodding to the way Mikey's practically vibrating from junk food.

And, of course, he can only shrug back.

The store here is a pretty damn nice one, and with all the rows of records laid out in front of us we've got an hour tops to sort through it all, assuming the half-awake and relatively unamused cashier doesn't decide to call it quits early.

I look at Gerard knowingly. "You take the pop-punk, I'll take the sad and/or druggy 80s bullshit section."

"Deal."

I start flicking through the LPs, staring for a few minutes longingly at a Sonic Youth one before sticking to the plan: get Gerard and early 17th birthday present, one that decidedly doesn't suck, and one I know is relevant to whatever the hell's been happening tonight. (I've tried to get him to see the brilliance of Thurston Moore to no avail, but we can't win them all.)

The Smiths: The Queen is Dead

I head up to the counter before Gerard can see it, quickly (gently, this is vinyl, after all) stuffing it in my bag after paying and skipping over to where he's searching through the discs, huffing dramatically.

"Nothing?" I ask. Gerard shakes his head.

"Nothing worth dropping twenty bucks on, no."

"Aw, well. That sucks."

Gerard reaches for my bag. "Looks like you got--"

"Ah-ah-ah. Nope."

Gerard raises an eyebrow.

"Not yet."

He grins.

"Is that a challenge?" he snaps.

"No, but I'll refuse to read Watchmen if you try and spoil this too soon."

"Fine. Fineee. But you didn't have to."

I lean into his shoulder, and he smiles a little more.

"Yeah, I did. I did."

***

"So hear me out." He takes a deep breath, the idea-spilling kind, the best kind.

"Uh-huh." 

With his parents halfway across the state, Mikey long since asleep from the inevitable sugar crash, and the whole city seeming like it's asleep even with all the breakfast diners and corporate offices of the world still shining their lights, it's not a bad time to be curled up in the grass in June. Gerard twists his hands nervously.

"You know how I've wanted to start a band?"

"...yes..." 

"Don't think I don't hear the skepticism in your voice, asshat."

I laugh. "I'm serious! I'm serious, go on."

Another breath. "Okay, so I know you feel really under confident about your abilities and stuff but you're the greatest guitarist I know and my friend knows a guy who knows a guy that does recording and stuff and--"

"Okay, whoa, slow down. We haven't even started this hypothetical band, Gerard."

"I know, I know. But someday, y'know...I just mean we could have a shot at it."

"Yeah."

He snuggles up closer, eyes closed. "You can't fall asleep on me now, though," I whisper.

"Nnnng."

"I'll be in the band if you wake up, Gerard."

He snaps up, eyes wide. "I'm holding you to that under any circumstances."

"Got it, Gee."

Gerard smirks and lies his head on my chest, taking me by surprise. Either way, I'm not complaining. It's three am, I can't remember my own name, and the leaves are rustling over top of us; it's not like we haven't held each other like this before. It's peaceful, and I just want to take a jar, capture it, and seal the lid.

"Hey, Gee?"

"Hm?"

I get up, much to his reluctance, walking barefoot across the cool grass of the brief stretch from woods to the back porch of his house. I reach for the brown paper record bag, and sit back down in front of him.

"I was going to wait to give this to you, but I figured I'd let you go ahead and play it for me later tonight," I tell him, and Gerard reaches for it gently. Carefully, he pulls the album out of the bag, his face splitting into an enormous smile.

"Oh, Frank--"

"None of that 'you-didn't-have-to bullshit. I did. And I wanted to."

"I love you."

I stop, the air tasting clean under the haze of the night. When I look at Gerard, he's dead serious, one hand playing with my hair, the other clutching the record, almost forgotten at this point.

"It's-- it's just a record, dude, it's not a big deal at all."

"No, Frank, I mean-- I just, shit, I don't know. It's not that."

He looks almost like he's about to cry, but I stop him, grabbing his hand softly.

"Then what is it?"

Gerard pulls me closer, silent for several moments as he closes his eyes. I just watch, not wanting to fuck this up, confused and a little nervous but suddenly feeling my chest pounding at the seams.

"I love you. I just really do. And I've wanted to say that, and I don't know why I thought it would be a good idea--"

I grab him by the shoulders, gently but firmly, feeling this insane surge of confidence as I let him bridge the gap, his lips soft and tinged with coffee and soda and the taste of early summer melting into mine. 

He pulls back.

"Damn," he mutters, and starts giggling uncontrollably.

"What, what did I--"

"Nothing. You did absolutely nothing wrong, Frank."

When Gerard pulls me closer once again, this time it's a fire kindling of a kiss, something that worms its way deep into my stomach and makes my fingers tremble as I grab at his jacket sleeves.

Right now it's completely real.

Gerard just pulls me to his chest, and I breathe in his scent, euphoric.

***

When we make it back to the house, legs turned to jelly and stumbling across the uneven earth laughing about nonsense, Mikey is awake again, turning a movie package over in his hand.

He looks at us, hair messed up beyond description and makeup smeared across our eyes and lips in a very damning fashion.

"You know what, I'm trying to decide what to say about this, but I've decided I'm not going to," he says plainly. "Now, who wants to watch Birdemic: Shock and Terror?"


	6. On Better Days

Frank wasn't especially keen on talking about coming home. Then again, he wasn't especially keen on talking about the serving, seeing as it hadn't been his choice to begin with. A number of boys had taken to protesting the draft or the war or politics in general, but nihilism had become Frank's strong suit shortly after setting foot in that country.

No, Frank was not protesting the shit card he'd been dealt. He was just tired. More than anything, he wanted to forget it ever happened. Accepting that amount of death, concentrated all around him and all-consuming, was not worth the word honorable on the discharge form. 

Back in Jersey, he was marooned. His father had died a few years back, just before Frank graduated. As for his mother, she'd taken to the west coast shortly after in '67. Despite it being nearly a year since, he'd not heard a word from her. This left Frank with a couple options: the streets, or rooming with Ray. Fortunately Ray was no fair weather friend, and was more than willing to take him in.

That didn't make it easy, though. This whole coming-back thing. Frank had that footage of shell-shocked WWII soldiers on a loop in his head, trying to both separate himself from it and finding himself empathizing with it more and more. The truth was, he didn't really give a shit who called him a hero, because he wasn't; he didn't care who called him a murderer, because he'd beaten them to it. Fortunately, most people didn't care or notice you. There was an eerie kind of weight that settled in their eyes when you told them you'd just gotten back from Vietnam, usually a pity or discomfort. Frank didn't want to think about it. He was bound and determined to remember as little as possible about his time overseas, as stupid as he knew that effort was. He'd seen things he still hadn't wiped from the back of his eyelids. 

All this was what, consciously or unconsciously, led Frank to a bar on the outskirts of the East Village. He hadn't meant to go to New York today, but then again, he hadn't really meant to go anywhere. All he knew was he had to get out of the apartment, and a short drive away was some slightly fresher scenery. Frank wanted to get drunk. Absolutely pissed drunk, even if it meant being stuck here for a night or two. So maybe this part of NYC was a bit overrun with hippies; he could deal with it. He might've given up on passion and making love instead of war and all that stuff, but he empathized with their fruitless fight for peace all the same. And a bar was a bar, was it not?

Not exactly, it seemed. Had the East Side always been so crowded with Allen Ginsberg-quoting types with entirely too tight shirts? It'd been a couple years, Frank thought. Whatever. He walked through the door, a strand of brightly painted bells clanging against the wood. The bar was dim, but not so dim that its inhabitants weren't bent over their books and notepads. Frank spotted a few titles-- some Marx, some Chomsky, and so forth. A girl in a knitted hat was scribbling furiously, something perched between her fingers that definitely didn't smell like a cigarette. Behind the bar itself stood a singular man, humming to himself as he dropped the needle gently on a Velvet Underground record. When he turned to face the entryway, he smiled warmly at Frank.

"Well, we're not going to bite you _that_ hard, sweetheart," the man said. Frank blinked and did his best mentally brush away the nickname. It occurred to Frank that awkwardly standing in the middle of the threshold was, perhaps, rude. 

"Sorry. Uh-- do you guys have any, er, Pabst here?" Frank asked, scratching the back of his neck uncomfortably. Across the room, the girl with the hat snorted. Someone else nearby elbowed her gently, muttering something about welcoming the uninitiated. "Yeah, yeah," she whispered.

The man behind the counter eyed the scene briefly, then turned back to Frank. "Oh! I don't work here. I just kind of hang out here-- but we have some stuff we've brewed, if you'd like. It's a bit strong for my taste. But we also have coffee, or maybe you're more of a tea drinker?"

Frank was beginning to regret this decision. "Uh...well--"

"Coffee. I'm gonna go with you being a coffee kind of guy. Trust me, it's great, I ground the coffee beans myself. It's that fair trade stuff, you know? Have one on the house. I doubt Ryan would mind. We don't get a lot of new visitors, if you haven't noticed," the man said. "I'm Gerard, by the way. Over there's Lindsey and Bert. And if I'm not mistaken, Adam is currently hiding in the corner. Actually, he might be asleep. Or is he just really stoned? Can't tell. Jury's out on that one." Gerard gestured to a slouched figure at the other end of the relatively small space. 

"Oh. Okay. I'm, uh, Frank."

Frank was a little more than taken aback by the talkativeness, but he supposed it was hospitality nonetheless. At this point the Gerard guy was busy fixing him a large mug of coffee, so he'd feel like an asshole if he turned it down now. Hesitantly, he sat himself at one of the creaking stools Mod-Podged with magazine clippings. The record quietly spun, meshing with the sound of coffee grounds scooped and french-pressed into a beverage. Gerard handed Frank his cup, the steam spiraling from the surface of doused in cream and cinnamon. Frank had to admit it smelled pretty great. Oddly comforting, too. You didn't get this kind of coffee in the army. He took a sip-- okay, you didn't get this kind of coffee anywhere. This Gerard guy was right. 

Speaking of which, the Gerard guy was sitting down on the stool next to him, still smiling ear to ear. Ink-black hair tangled in soft rivulets around his face, and a dark green sweater hung loosely over his pale shoulders. Christ, did this guy even know what sunlight was? He was wearing makeup, too, a little kohl smudged around his hazel eyes. Strange guy, he was, enthusiastic about some sleep deprived stranger stumbling into he and his friends' hide-away. 

"So what brings you here, really?" Gerard inquired. Frank winced a little to himself. He could tell there was no accusation in Gerard's voice, just curiosity, but curiosity meant explaining himself. So he just left it at this:

"Oh, I don't know. Just drove across from Jersey looking for somewhere to get a place to drink."

"There's nowhere to drink in Jersey?"

Frank paused for a moment. Gerard laughed. "I'm just being troublesome."

"In all honesty, I just needed to get away from Jersey. Which is ironic, seeing as I was sent back there to get away from something much shittier," Frank said. Gerard face grew softer. The war was too ubiquitous at this point. 

"Let me guess," Gerard began.

"I know what the, er, counterculturally-minded think about me. And they're right, for what it's worth." 

"No-- no, I wasn't going to say anything like that. I was just going to ask what brought you home, if I may."

"That's a bit of a downer, but then again, you have a painting of a dead bird hanging on the wall over there, so..." Frank trailed off. Gerard lit up. "Oh yeah! Some of my work. Found that little creature just melting on the pavement and was struck with artistic inspiration, you know? You know what feeling?"

Frank chuckled. "I don't know. Can't say I have."

"Right. Well, I digress. I can handle downers."

Frank set the mug down on the counter carefully and turned to face the other man. "Alright-- well, to hell with it I guess. If you want the spiel, I should probably be talking to someone about it anyway. Someone of a psychiatric persuasion, but still. It started in '65, of course. I certainly didn't ask to be drafted. Actually, I used to protest that sort of thing. Can't say how many times I got called a commie in high school. But you know how it goes. One way or another they get you, don't they?"

Gerard nodded soberly. "Got my brother. Got him killed, to be exact."

"Oh. I'm--"

"Save it. I've gotten the worst parts of the hurting out of the way. We're talking about them getting you, so continue." Gerard offered a assuring grimace. 

Frank curled his fingers around the warm ceramic of the mug, taking a small breath to collect himself. Why was he pouring his heart out to a stranger? It was a question in the same vein of 'why are you in a hole in the wall beatnik bar late at night?', though, so he couldn't much entertain it. 

"Right. Well, less than a year after the whole mess began I got my letter. Conscientious objector status rejected, of course. I spent a year and a half in Vietnam, lost the plot, and had a nervous breakdown. They found me just short of pulling the trigger of a M1-Carbine positioned at my head...which, of course, isn't exactly stand-up soldier material. So here I am, trying to forget. In this place, talking to a man I don't even know about the worst period of my life like it's the weather forecast." Frank sighed, and let go of the coffee cup.

"Thanks for the joe, but I shouldn't be here," he mumbled. He'd really cracked it now. 

Gerard peered at him through the curtained strands of black hair, chewing his lip in thought. 

"No. You ought to stay, Frank. That is, if you'd like."

***

Frank hunched over in the telephone booth, yellowed glass encasing him as he spun the plastic rotary dial. The door was open, with Bert smoking a cigarette beside Adam against the door and Gerard giggling by the back exit. 

Ray was clearly skeptical about Frank, in all his fragility, shacking up with some random bohemians across the Hudson River. "Are you _sure_ you're, erm, in a good place?" he asked, but by now Frank had gotten a little of the overly strong brewed stuff in his system, and simply laughed and waved it off. "It's fine! I'm great. I'm just having-- what they might call..."

"An absolutely indelible experience!" Gerard called out. 

"Well, an experience, all right," Bert snickered. "You ever had LSD?" he asked Frank matter-of-factly. Frank stared blankly. On the other end of the phone, Ray was asking _what the hell, who is that, what about LSD,_ and Frank groaned and shushed Bert. 

"I'm okay, Ray. I promise."

"Do you have people looking _out_ for you, Frank?"

Frank looked outside the telephone booth, where Gerard gave him another wide smile. 

"Yes. I'll be back soon. And I'll talk to the VA, I'll figure out something with the rent--"

"I can cover the rent. Just please be careful. I don't have a lot of friends left," Ray said quietly. Frank briefly thought about Bob and the flag draped over the wooden vessel and the images that never left his mind for long. He hung up the phone and was met with Lindsey handing him a sketch on lined paper. It was of himself, standing in the doorway of the bar. So this was what she'd been furiously scribbling. 

"You ought to get Gerard to do a more official one, if he'll ever stop fawning over mister Lou Reed for five minutes to finish his art commissions," she said pointedly. Gerard rolled his eyes. "I pay my share of the bills, do I not?"

"Barely," Bert muttered. "Anyway, Ryan's here."

Sure enough, a ragged blue Thunderbird pulled into the gravel alleyway. Out of it stepped a lanky man in extraordinarily bell-bottomed bell-bottoms, a case of restaurant napkins in hand. He looked curiously at Frank. "What's with the new boy?"

"He's staying upstairs with us for the night," Adam said sluggishly, still not looking entirely cognoscente. Gerard just kept grinning and gave a thumbs up to the owner, who just shrugged and set his napkins down to open the backdoor. "Cool," Ryan said, and went inside. 

"So is he just...alright with that?" Frank said. 

"Yeah, we more or less live above the shop. More or less in the since that our sort is a nomadic and highly inconsistent bunch. Artists. Musicians. Dealers," Gerard explained. "But I've been here a while, and he trusts us. Just try not to smoke all the mary jane, and all's well." 

And so, Frank found himself in the loft of an East Village apartment, warm with liquid sedative and laughing as Lindsey tried to get him to try on various knitted sweaters and Gerard drew him wearing them. It was all an amalgamation, a whirlpool blur of incidental happiness in which for one brief moment, Frank felt sort of like a person. 

Before it all imploded with sleepy, drunken unconsciousness, the last thing Frank remembered was Gerard whispering in his ear, _"Thank you."_

***

Frank woke up completely dizzied and lying on the hardwood floor. He knew two things: he wasn't drunk anymore, and he instead had a massive fucking headache. On the stereo, Phil Ochs was skipping and repeating _"--marching anymore"_ over and over. 

"Thank you for what?" Frank said dumbly. He then realized the gap in time which had transpired, and looked around the room, embarrassed. Adam was still asleep. Lindsey stirred a bit from her sleep in a chair ridden with moth holes. Bert was nowhere to be seen, but footsteps at the door of the apartment's second floor traced up to Gerard standing at the door. 

"Are you feeling alright? I brought you some water, you seemed a little grey in the face," he told Frank, crouching down on the floor and extending a glass. Frank groggily took it and sucked it down, realizing how wrecked he really was all over again. 

"I'm sorry," Frank said. "I really-- oh God, what am I doing?"

Gerard gingerly touched his hand to Frank's shoulder. "I meant thank you for making our night," Gerard said. "I missed having visitors. Even if you're not quite the degenerate Bohemia sort. You're a great guy. Sorry you woke up passed out on our floor."

Frank slowly pulled himself upright, and Gerard helped him to his feet. 

"What have I done?" Frank mumbled tearfully.

"You-- you didn't do anything, Frank. You got a fair bit drunk, if that's what you mean, but don't we all--"

"No. No, Gerard, what have I done. What have I _done._ Gerard, I've killed people. I have watched a man die from a bullet I put in him. Oh my God, Gerard--"

Before Frank could process the words pouring from his own mouth, he was sobbing into Gerard's shoulder. The older man somehow took it in stride, hugging him solemnly and shushing him. Frank felt the warmth of new tears drip onto his scalp, and pulled away to see Gerard's eyes glassy with water. 

"What is this country but the killer of us all," Gerard said softly. "All we can do it wake up and see another day just to spite it."

Gradually, Frank calmed down, partially with the help of another warm cup of coffee downstairs. Gerard handed him his coat and a sketchbook, unlocking the front of the bar for the younger to leave. 

The room was barren, save for a few books scattered on tables and chairs stacked on one another. Frank looked back at it, feeling like both a nanosecond and a decade had just passed over the course of less than 24 hours. And then he turned to Gerard, looked him in the eyes, and didn't bother entertaining questions. 

It was a soft kiss. Open-mouthed, a little fervent, but soft. As for who started, well, Frank wasn't sure where his own body began and ended right now. But he decided he was very much okay with this. 

"Take care of yourself, Frank."


End file.
